


A road with no sign

by Spylace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark Sam Winchester, Dean as a convenient meatsuit, Dean does not actually appear in this fic, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Possessive Sam Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Ruby as a man, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, incompatible with season 4 and beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Dean’s soul is in hell, his body remains.</p>
<p>Sam wants to keep it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A road with no sign

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from LJ!
> 
> Written from way back when this was relevant and the world was rocked by the silent cries of fangirls as Dean passed from Earth.

She is far away when the clock hands strike twelve, when the numbers are set to zero, when Dean’s soul is so violently ripped out of his mortal flesh. It takes her time to get back, as dazed as she is. Where Lilith put her after the rape of her body is not far in terms of distance but of the mind.

Ten minutes after midnight, she— _her body_ —stirs back to life.

The minutes after midnight her eyes open clouded blue. Within seconds they slide into demon black. She sits up, hunches over and vomits between her feet. Her knees squeeze the side of her temples, wheat-colored hair clings on to her sweaty face. Her entire frame shudders as the torrent slows to a trickle. She breathes, sucking sour air through her lips. Greasy, white lumps drop from her mouth. Maggots hang by a translucent thread before burrowing into the warmth of the acid-coated carpet. She scoots away, disgusted with herself—her body. The last thing she expects is to have her own knife digging into the base of her throat.

She chokes at the sudden sensation and tilts her head back. The knife follows her, cutting her in warning as she tries to twist her neck out of the way. She curls her sparkly purple nails into the ruined carpet. The knife floats serenely over the path of her bobbing throat and hovers over her eye, rotating as though it might like to bury itself in her socket. She snarls, her appearance positively feral. The blade glints tauntingly and glows when she tries to summon it back into her hands. It casually drifts over to her other eye, tilting itself and offering a glimpse of her true reflection. She quickly looks away and focuses her attention on the one controlling the arcane weapon.

Sam is quiet, his brother’s corpse cradled like something _precious_ in his arms. His face is wet, painted in red and so are his hands, his clothing and his hair. Ruby thinks that she would like to lick all of it off of her boy-king’s skin. Ruby thinks that he looks magnificent; precisely what she envisioned her champion to _be_. Ruby thinks a lot of things but knows better than to voice them out loud. Not that Sam would need her to, not anymore.

“Dean was right.” He says finally after letting out a noisy choke. He begins to rock Dean’s body back and forth, face still pressed against the bloody crook of his brother’s shoulder. Dean’s eyes are still open. She feels no guilt from the dead-verdant gaze. She stares back into them challengingly as though daring the older Winchester to crawl out of hell and confront her himself. But he doesn’t. He remains compliant and still in his younger brother’s arms, dead at last. “You lied to me.”

“I never lied to you Sam.” Ruby says soothingly, even as the demon-slaying knife circles around her head for the umpteenth time. The pair-shaped loop straightens and the dull edge of the dagger brushes against the tip of her ears. She shivers and her toes curl. Sam’s voice is cold, colder than the congealed blood flowing sluggishly through her capillaries.

“You never mentioned that he’d have to be dead.”

“Well,” her features distort into an ugly sneer as she throws back Dean’s earlier words into Sam’s face. “We can’t have everything in life.” Her eyes suddenly bulge, oval indentations marring the line of her neck. “W... wait, what are you doing?” and suddenly the silver tip of the knife is bearing into the center of her forehead. She stifles a scream. “You would have been dead if he’d kept on breathing.” She gasps, orange sparks leaping out from where the knife dug into her skull. “You have no idea... haven’t you ever wondered why your father asked him to save you? He was the only one that could, _he could be the seal to chain someone like Lilith for eons…_ “

Sam’s eyes flash, but in a way that is purely human—there is no demonic hue painting the red-lined whites of his eyes.

“You were going to let him die from the beginning...”

Ruby lets out a high-pitched scream. She can feel her smoky form bubbling at the surface of her worn body. Her pores begin to weep black filth onto her skin. The knife has sliced through the ivory of her skull and is poking at the pinkish gray mess of her brain. Within seconds she is reduced a simpering wreck at Sam’s feet. She weaves flattery and loyalty into her bleating but he doesn’t let up.

“Wait! It’s not too late! I can help; I can tell you how you can save Dean...”

The knife stops and she inwardly sighs in relief. Sam smiles crookedly as though he hears anyways. His fingers are shaky but he reaches out and touches her. He puts a hand around her neck, almost a soothing action if it weren’t for the thumb digging idly into the cut he made. His palm flexes against her rattling windpipe and he hisses into her ear,

“Keep Dean _alive_.”

She shoots out from her blonde female body so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t get a whiplash.

The old hunter, Bobby Singer, runs inside the room just in time to see her pour into Dean’s slack mouth.

 

Sam holds the body still.

The limbs twitch rigidly but there is no struggle, no resistance, none of the expected annoying voice at the back of her mind. She makes herself at home inside Dean’s vacant head. It’s been a long time she’s possessed a male body, longer since she’s needed to. She feels pain in various places, noticeably in her chest where the heart should have been. Otherwise, Dean’s body fits around her nice and snug like pussy around cock and she can’t help but make the smug comparison as her vision smoothes out into perfect 20/20.

She pushes herself away from Sam’s embrace, feeling sticky and gross. The inside bits hang out as she tries to sit up and Sam nearly gives himself a heart attack trying to push the slick intestines back into the cavity of her—Dean’s—stomach. She fingers the torn flesh trying to wipe off as much of the hellhounds’ venomous saliva as she can. The only surefire cure would be holy water but in her situation she would heal fast enough to keep the poison at bay. She pops her spine and crosses her legs.

Sam doesn’t even flinch but the old hunter does and she flashes him a coy smile that looks utterly foreign on Dean’s— _hers_ dammit, the body was _hers_ now—face. Sam’s mouth presses into a fine line, his eyes are red.

He’s been crying

How sweet.

“So,” she rasps, Dean’s voice rich and unfamiliar on her tongue. “What next Sammy?”

Next thing she knows, her face is buried in the cold cleavage of her former body. Her lips split open and bleeds sluggishly onto the blue leather. The droplets are cool, bordering on pseudo-warmth. She smears it all over her newly acquired face as Sam pulls her up by her collar and tilts the demon-slaying knife— _her_ —knife in front of her left cornea.

The action might have been more frightening had she not known that Sam would never hurt Dean—but then she wasn’t Dean now was she?

“Rule number one, no one gets to call me by that name except Dean.”

 

She feels like she’s falling.

It feels exactly the same as when Lilith stole her body.

There is a kind of a space left inside Dean’s head—within the ruins of his mind—that Sam sends her to and will send her to whenever he gets sick of the black-eyed flinches and caustic drawls.

It is a room created of an accident, of trying to push past what is no longer there. It is a false room, a fake, an illusion, an afterthought of something—or some _one_ —that should have been there.

It is a room painted in deep blue, a color you can only find in a starless sky or in the deep of the sea. She casts no shadows over it; nothing mars its bland perfection. She circles wildly in a form of smoke and bones. When she snaps back into Dean’s body like a stretched rubber band and disoriented, her former body is already gone and the old hunter nowhere to be seen.

She hisses when the reddened flesh around her jaws blister in reaction to holy water and Sam wordlessly hands her blood-stained cloth. Her chest has been stitched shut, black threads etching jagged lightning across the tanned torso. She touches it. It’s itchy despite the swollen skin. Sam has already packed their belongings, the not-so-Brady family already informed about their formerly possessed daughter. They’ll probably drop her off at the nearest orphanage before the dawn breaks. Sam shoves her in the backseat— _‘aww, and here I thought I’d get to drive’_ —with nothing more than long-sleeved shirt with a questionable stain on the back.

He shoots her a dark look and takes his seat at the wheel. She feels an unusual thrill spiral down her back. Her cock twitches in interest and she bites her upper lip—or is it still _Dean’s_ upper lip?—and catches Sam’s gaze out the corner of her eyes. She palms her erection and moans, the sound stifled by the whites of her teeth. Then she gasps, feeling like she’s been waylaid by an attempted exorcism. Sam’s jaws are stiff and his hands are skeletal gulls perched over the steering wheel. She laughs in a staccato of pain. Sam turns the radio on, obscure mullet rock blasting out of the speakers. But she laughs on, even when the volume—or Sam, _probably Sam_ —bursts her eardrums until they bleed dry.

 

His brother’s body heals slow, flesh knits reluctantly. More often than not he finds Ruby cutting away at the dead skin watching the still fresh blood drip from the wounds. He redoes the dressing everyday. He makes sure that infection hasn’t set in. takes care to rub the wounds in with peroxide and other cleaning agents before applying healing ointments. The stitches come out eventually. Silver white scars replace the raw red lines like the arms of the Milky Way drifting away slowly from its core. The dark, raised circle below the sternum has disappeared; bullet riddled left shoulder white-washed, the poker burn lying beneath them erased. It scares him in its utter foreignness for the landscape he has known before has changed. Sam hates it. It’s as though they’re starting anew with a fresh backdrop, another chance. It feels too much like absolution for him to accept. It feels as though Dean forgives him even now when his soul is burning in hell.

So he gives Dean’s body new marks and covets them after sending Ruby away into the dark room. The body heals, Ruby makes sure it does. But her technique is far from perfect and leaves marks more often than not. And when he’s alone with the empty body, he touches every span of the marbled skin and says ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’, ‘sorry’, over and over again. He wants to beg for forgiveness for every stitch since day zero. He wants to apologize for every bite from a black dog, slash from a werewolf, bruises from earthbound spirits, and cuts from thrown objects.

Ruby knows of this and exploits it whenever she can. She throws Dean’s body around recklessly in a way that it is so _Dean_ that he isn’t sure how to make it stop. Yet there is no undermining her usefulness as they fight side by side, one demon at a time as they reach the centerfold of Lilith’s nest. Sam has lost Dean; Sam has lost Dean before in the excruciating four months that followed one hundred odd ways to die. This isn’t, she isn’t Dean but it’s Dean’s body and it’s still living, it’s still breathing and that’s enough for him. As long as Dean’s body is alive there is hope, as long as the body is alive Dean can come back.

He runs through the mantra every other hour when Ruby isn’t looking, when they’re attempting to sleep and he wakes up after nightmares wishing through aching teeth that Dean was by his side if not to throw inappropriate jokes in his face.

Ruby never manages the mastery over a thousand and one expressions Dean had claimed as his own and for that he is glad. It’s bad enough hearing his brother’s voice on her tongue for everyday his soul burns in the pit.

 

The first time they do it Sam is angry, they had exorcised a demon high in Lilith’s command. It had spewed giggles and spat in their face when Sam had asked for Dean in return for its life. It had struggled against its binds; its eyes had casually glided over Dean’s body in hungered strokes. It grinned knowingly before replying no, he’d rather go to hell and jump rope with Dean’s intestines before spilling his whereabouts.

Sam doesn’t exorcise him right away. He kills him instead.

When they get to the car he slams her against the impala. She knows that it’s not really her that he’s touching with his enormous hands and it’s never her he whimpers for, fingers already wrapped around her half hard cock as she kisses back biting and scratching.

He rocks against her—rocks against him—needing to know that his brother’s body was still alive and whole. He needed to know that there was still a pulse that jumped through those veins, that oxygen was getting to those necessary parts.

And just as soon as he started he steps back gulping the air as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. He falls to his knees, forehead pressed against the water-stained black paint of the metallicar as she curls his hair into dark ringlets around— _his_ —her fingers. She kneels down beside him turning his head towards her. Sam looks lost, his hazel eyes suspiciously wet. Expressionless, she edges in closer. He closes his eyes and she licks the tears off just as salty as blood. And to Sam behind the thin layer of skin, it is Dean’s lips that stick to his skin. It’s Dean’s face that’s pressed against his own, cheekbone to cheekbone, impossibly long lashes weaving against his. It’s Dean’s air that he breathes into and Sam’s that Ruby takes in.

“I could make it good for you,” she whispers “I could make you feel so good Sammy...”

He cups the side of her—his—face in his hands looking at her hungry dark. Lust she could deal with but it isn’t carnal pleasure in his eyes than it is more primal _want_. It scares her more than lust; it manages to scare her more than when Lilith booted her out of her meat-suit to play with it.

“Rule number one,” he says hoarsely,

Her lips twist wry, fear receding as she answers as a shadowy reminiscence of the man who had been Sam’s brother.

“No one says that name but him.”

 

He doesn’t kiss her—she has to kiss him. And even then he turns his head left and right trying to avoid her eager lips. He shoves a gigantic paw down her pants and she jumps, bumping her head against the impala. He squeezes her, and her cock stands in salute. She tries to touch him but he doesn’t let her— _well then what does he want?_

He avoids her eager mouth and sinks his teeth into the side of her neck. She keens and shoves a hand against the curls of hair pulling and tearing as delicious friction is created between herself and Sam’s hand. She bumps her head against the car again and jerks her arm up to the door handle more out of ‘shit-there-is-gravel-up-my-ass’ than any thought to public decency. She tugs and pulls but the door doesn’t give. The car remains stubbornly shut as if it already knows that she’s not Dean—and no way in hell is she getting in without Sam opening it for her. Thankfully Sam seems to agree that the relatively abandoned parking space is not to have an impromptu sex and opens the door with a flick of a wrist before Ruby can tear the door off its hinges. He shoves her into the backseat against the floor and off the leather interior. Her shirt and jacket rides up to her waist and bunches at her ribs. Sam spends time tasting the newly exposed skin as Ruby hisses below him rocking back and forth searching for the source of heat that has been taken away from her.

Sam gnaws contently at her hipbones seemingly satiated already in his exploration of his brother’s body. Ruby rolls her eyes and knees his right flank. There is a surprised snort and Sam stares at her confused as though his image of Dean and Ruby had suddenly split. He blinks slowly, rubbing the rising teeth marks as his forehead scrunches trying to remember where they left off.

She leans into his touch mewling lewdly and he takes his hand off as though burned. Ruby has no time for belated conscience attack. She pulls him in, doesn’t even attempt to close the door as she rolls them over, Sam on the floor as she straddles him in that tight space between the front and back seats.

He bucks repeatedly trying to throw her off. She laughs, short and frivolous. She kisses him again on the eyelids where traces of salt linger and travels down, to his lips, chin, neck, and sternum. She doesn’t bother undressing him, just rips the zipper open and grinds down on him. His breath comes out in a compressed whoosh and she can’t help but smirk as he rubs against her between the crack of her ass. He makes no other motion to take care of her needs and she stops for a moment, trapping his cock between his stomach and her thighs as she fondles herself in even, gentle strokes. 

Sam’s eyes, if anything, grows wider at this as his breath hitches and a small whine escapes his raw throat. She leans down and bites his lips before licking the moisture off the tip of his nose. He jumps a little and she lets out a small sigh rubbing her inner thighs against him. She herself is hard, the dark head stares at her almost accusingly and she thumbs the weeping slit. Sam puts both of his enormous hands on the side of her hips.

There is no warning as he thrusts up, splitting her wide open. She hurt—because damn Sam’s big—and she knew that it hurt him just as much if not more to enter her without preparation. The pleasure is not nearly enough to dull the pain. She writhes impaled with nothing more than sheer agony to ride through as she claws at his clothes, looking for purchase.

“Sam...!”

She tears, bleeds and heals continuously in a vicious cycle. His face turns red, eyes growing dark in anger as he thrusts rapidly without a single rhythm to his movements. Her spine arches and she settles for holding on. Dean’s soul no longer walks the earth but his body lives on and she cannot do much more than to keep it alive.

“Dean, Dean, Dean” he chants as he flips them over onto her back and pinned her against the damp carpet. Her mouth opens and closes in stifled grunts as she claws at him, to mark him just as he did her.

She snarls in anger and pain and to her surprise finds herself pinned to the floor. The new angle rubs her raw and tears open the weeping wounds inside her body. Sam’s hand closes around her throat, pace unrelenting as he squeezes. The other hand he places over her quivering skin, thumbing the ruined image of the sun. The tattoo is broken, useless, but she feels him breathing life into the blue ink he shares over his heart. He lets his forehead fall against her chest and grinds it against the sternum. Her body jerks and arches at their frantic rutting. Black creeps into her vision and for the first time she wonders if she had bitten off more than she can chew. Her legs lay spread open, knees too weak to find purchase over Sam’s jutting hips. Then he comes in her in long spurts barely letting her catch her breath before he locks her up in oblivion.

_Way to treat a girl Winchester._

 

They never do it face to face after the first time and never will. He nearly always banishes her in the afterglow and the few times he doesn’t, they’re behind an alley, in a bathroom at a gas station, hiding in the closet of white-fenced homes—when he needs her conscious to walk back into the car.

Sam is left with an empty body in the hollow echoes of his climax, weeping as he cradles his brother’s face. He pulls out. His cock twitches with something akin to regret. He cleans them both, no matter how tired he is.

He holds Dean’s body up in the showers, chest to back, thighs to buttocks until he grows hard again and he squeezes his arms around Dean’s body until the lukewarm water and tears render it impossible to see the fragile creature in his arms. He sits Dean’s body on the toilet seat while drying him. He works on the downy blonde hair and mops the freckled cheeks. There is moisture left on the impossibly long lashes and he leaves it be. It makes Dean look slightly more alive and strangely beautiful. It nearly breaks him when he elicits no reaction to brush his fingers against the normally sensitive toes. He clothes his brother in a purple t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He lays the body down on a bed and gets into another. And slowly, he calls Ruby back.

 

He rarely bothers trying to get Ruby off but she does come inevitably.

“For all his macho posturing, I’ve never had a body this sensitive. Fuck...” she stared in disgust at her stiffening cock. “No wonder he was such a slut.”

Ruby comes to; sporting a shiner Dean would have been proud of. Sam’s knuckles are bruised, mottled with wilting violets as he runs cold water over it. He looks up when the bed creaks with her movement. She freezes, deer-in-the-headlights look before an eighteen wheeler.

“Go to sleep”

And she does.

 

It’s like a base instinct that extends beyond what Sammy-two demands. It always rides on a thin line between pleasure and pain. Both parties have already spent more than one morning too sore to get out of bed. And sometimes the sensation of Ruby’s demonic nature forcing healing upon his brother’s stretching body makes Sam that much more violent.

“You think your brother’s going to let you do this to him,” she grunts, perspiration gathering at her chin “when you finally do get him out of hell.” She finishes the sentence by twisting her hips viciously until she’s completely impaled, cornered and fully under Sam’s mastery. He grabs her hips and pumps sporadically. She grunts and whimpers and whines, rubbing her face furiously against the damp pillow until she’s literally crying as Sam sinks his teeth into her neck. He tastes sulfur on his brother’s skin and bites down harder until Ruby tenses, the body almost squeezing him out. Blood squirts into his mouth, the copper overwhelming the dirty sulfur. He relaxes his grip and let go. He butts Ruby’s head back down, smothering her in the thin pillows.

“He doesn’t have to know.” He growls, balls deep inside his body until she swears that she feels him resonate deep within the ruins of her soul.

He comes inside her with a quiet groan and kneels slightly, staring down at the ring of muscle stretched obscenely around his softening cock. He thumbs the puffy flesh almost absentmindedly and pulls out. His seed runs down his—her—legs in a mixture of pale and red. He touches it and rubs it between his fingers before letting his hand fall back at his side.

Ruby flips over. Her—Dean’s—lips are bruised and puckered, the dead green eyes laughing at a joke she’s not ready to share quite yet.

“But you’ll remember” she breathes, a throaty gasp that goes straight to his dick and makes it stiffen. She laughs knowingly, her eyes flashing from speckled green to beetle black. “And so will I.”

And she is pushed back until only Dean’s body is left soft and pliant beneath his hands. He turns his brother’s body around. He is gentler with him than he has ever been with Ruby. Dean’s body looks like a sleepy angel. An angel he condemned to hell even before it could take flight.

He kisses Dean’s forehead slow and sweet thinking that the sweat on his skin already tastes salty and sweet though that’s probably his hopeful imagination. He soaks a small towel with water and begins to wipe him down. Dean remains still even when he presses down on the colorful bruises lining his hips and the dark red mottling around his thighs. When he’s finished, he cups his brother’s face in his hands looking for a spark of intelligence within the gold-speckled eyes. Perhaps he’s looking for a gateway to hell, or Dean himself surely writhing in the flames by now.

He pulls the limp body into a desperate hug, calloused fingertips skimming over the silver scars. He buries his face into the longer blonde-brown-sandy hair. He knows what he said to Ruby to be true; Dean doesn’t need to know— _he shouldn’t have to_.

And like Ruby says, they will remember for him.


End file.
